losing weight at the zen center

Whenever anyone talked about "enlightenment" at the zen center, I always thought they were talking about some light bulb turning on: a moment of realization, an epiphany, an understanding that somehow would transform your entire outlook on life- that once you reached "enlightenment," the shining of that light on your life would create some sort of bliss, or new and altered state.
This, was not something I ever really wanted. I didn't come to the zen center for change, I just liked how I felt after coming to zazen instruction and the dharma talks- like I had just had a really good massage- so I kept coming. Why I continued to come after that, why I write this blog, why I do whatever it is that I'm doing now at the zen center, I can't really say; but last night and this morning, it occurred to me that "enlightenment" can have another meaning- and it's a meaning that's more true to my experience.
Lately, enlightenment feels more like a lightening of weight. My shoulders are less hunched, my body is looser, I walk more like a rag doll or puppy and less like a commuter rushing to work. Also, I just am lighter- I'm not carrying around so much stuff. All those thoughts and worries and plans and expectations..I guess in some ways they're still there, but whereas they used to press down on my shoulders like a stack of books on an already full bookcase, now they're kind of floating up from my gut, bouncing around, and, depending on my state of being, either churning and growing, or gliding away.
I heard someone once say, in response to being asked what they had "gained" from coming to the zen center, that it was more about what they had "lost," what they had given up- stress, anxiety, worry-and how much better their life was a result. For me, it doesn't feel like I've "lost" something, like something went away, it's more like a weight has been lifted, a restriction removed,  a loosening where there once was great tightness, clenching, fear.
But I've also lost a sense of the "weight" of things: this idea that one thing can change everything, that some decision I make or action I do will determine the fate of the world. It doesn't feel like that anymore. It feels like I'm just trying, and that my effort is a little pebble that sends out little cocentric circles that touch others and continue on their way. 

sex and intimacy

(Just, before you get all excited or get your hopes up, this post isn't going to be about sex in the physical sense of the word- if you're looking for that, I'm pretty sure you can find it by googling sex and zen. Hmmm, I wonder where that will lead you...)
So, for the last few weeks, we've been talking about sex and intimacy at Young Urban Zen. I have to admit that leading up to the first 'sex talk' I was totally expecting the talk to be about physical desires, sleeping with people on dates, etc. It wasn't at all; it was actually about relationships: being present to your partner, knowing when to stay/ leave a relationship, and a discussion of the blurry lines between friendship, romantic love, and intimacy.
During the second talk, we talked about not 'misusing sexuality' (this is one of the precepts). Again, the topic, at least in my small group, focused on relationships: when to be present to desires of another when you were in a relationship, how to know when it's just a desire and when it's genuine intimacy, etc.
I...have been pretty quiet throughout all of these discussions. I just don't have a lot of experience in this area so I didn't think I had much to offer. To be honest, I actually left the first talk feeling really left out. Not because anyone left me out, but because everyone was talking about relationships: boyfriends, girlfriends, true intimacy, connection, and I just thought, "Wow, I didn't know everyone had that. I definitely have not had that."
See, I've had boyfriends, sort of. And I've been in relationships, sort of. There have been three. But when I thought about those relationships I realized that none of them were intimate in the way that the people at Young Urban Zen were describing their relationships.
My first boyfriend was great- he treated me like a queen and taught me what it was like to be loved by another. Looking back on that relationship now, I realize that I never let him in. I was there, but I didn't share myself with him, not the parts of me that I was scared of showing. And when things got scary, I just got quiet and withdrew. He was sweet and patient and probably would have totally accepted those parts of me that I was afraid to share. But it didn't matter; he couldn't have accepted me because I wouldn't show myself to him, because I wouldn't share myself with him.

Then I thought about my next two relationships and why they ended and I decided, "Yeah, the reason those relationships ended was because those guys saw the real you."
See, I had come to some different conclusions about what had happened in my other relationships. I had decided that there was a pattern with me and guys. Guys meet me and think "Whoa, this girl is cool. She's not like other girls." And they have this interest and they ask me out and we start dating and then...
Then they get beyond that initial interest and get to know the real me, and then say, "Oh, not what I thought. Different, but not in the way I was hoping for." I thought it was this real me that repelled them, that made them lose interest. So I decided that in my next relationships, I should hide that real me, just keep up that inital persona that they seemed so interested in.
But looking back on this now, knowing what I know about me, it actually seems really unlikely that those guys lost interest because they saw the real me. Knowing what I know about myself- which is that I tend not to share myself with others- I can't imagine that they left becuase they saw the real me. I think it's more likely that the relationship fizzled because I didn't show the real me, because I wouldn't share myself with either of them. When I think about when the relationships ended, they did so around the time that things would have gotten intimate. But I don't think I was willing to get intimate. I don't actually know. I haven't seen either of them in years so I can't really ask, but I do remember this distance- this look on their faces of " Wish this would work out, but it's not going anywhere."
But I really did think that the reason it wasn't going anywhere was because they didn't like what they found when they got there, that they didn't want to go farther with this person they had finally seen. But I have to be honest. I have to see the role that I played in these relationships. I have to see that most likely, I was the one who stopped the relationship. I put up the wall, I kept them at bay. And I think that's why I haven't experienced intimacy in a relationship yet.

I don't really have anything more to say about this. I'm not using this realization to, like, guide my next move in terms of having an intimate relationship. I just...I kind of think that a lot of us are afraid that if we show the real me to others that they will run like hell in the opposite direction. But I'm beginning to wonder if that's really true- that maybe people want the opposite: that they want to see the real you, they want to see the unflitered, vulnerable, sometimes ugly, mostly truly beautiful you, because that's the one that's real.

I am totally alone and I am going to die!

"I’m totally alone in this world, I’m going to die some day, and my sister’s going to die too!"

This is how I started my dokusan with Paul on the sixth day of sesshin. It was awkward. I couldn’t make eye contact with him, I didn’t know what to say, and I was barely sitting zazen. (Normally when I have dokusan with Paul, it really does feel like I’m sitting zazen, but that he’s sitting it with me, kind of like having a guide along on the ride to answer any questions you might have).

“When you say alone, do you mean single? Do you mean you feel alone?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, “ I mean I’m totally alone in this world. And I’m going to die some day.”
“Do you not feel connected to your sister?” he asked.
“Well, that’s the other thing I realized,” I answered. “That’s my family, the four of us. It’s just the four of us. That’s it.”
He nodded, his eyes looked to a corner, and then he suggested, “Would you say that you feel lonely?”
“Well yes, but also, it’s this truth, I am totally alone in this world and I’m going to die.”
He nodded in agreement, in the way only Paul can do, and said, “Yes, it feels like a truth. But it’s a little easier to take when it’s not such an ominous statement.”

And he was right. It’s true, in some ways, I’m totally alone in this world and yes, I’m going to die. But also, I just feel lonely. And I don’t think this loneliness actually is connected to my so-called truth that ‘I am totally alone in this world and I’m going to die someday.’ I think I just feel lonely sometimes.

I’ve been coming closer to accepting this statement that I feel lonely. When Paul first suggested it, I just thought it was a good teaching in not being so dramatic, in putting things in terms that we are able to accept: ‘feeling lonely’ instead of ‘I am completely alone and I’m going to die.’ But it stuck with me, this suggestion that I feel lonely, and it has kind of given me a lens through which to see my actions. What I’m seeing is how much I want interaction with others but how I’m only willing to do this indirectly, without actual interaction.

I remember coming home from dokusan with Paul and thinking: “You’re lonely, but you have room mates. There are people, right here in your house, that you can interact with, that you can be with.”

And I thought, “Yeah, I should probably do that, but not tonight.”

Honestly, I was scared we would talk too long, that I wouldn’t be able to go back to my room when I wanted, or that we would talk about things that I didn’t want to talk about. This is silly, I know, I have a great room mate who totally listens and is really interesting but still, I didn’t want to, I was afraid of the interaction. It doesn’t make sense but that was how I felt.

And lately, I’ve been noticing, that when something happens that’s really profound, or funny- something that I really want to share- I start writing a blogpost, in my head. I don’t call an actual person, or go find someone to tell, I just write a blogpost, in my bedroom, all by myself. I do this on facebook too. I share what’s going on with me by updating my status. I don't share with actual people, I share with the internet.

In some ways, this makes total sense. I don't see my friends all the time (especially the ones who live far away) and I don't need to call them to tell them I only have 5 report cards left to do or that I just made an angel food cake with my leftover egg whites. So social media definitely has its place in our lives. But, as I was watching myself through this suggestion that I might feel lonely, I saw that my choice to share from my computer is in some ways a way to share without risk.

When I have some amazing realization and write about it on a blogpost, I don't have to risk someone disagreeing with me or (even worse) saying "Eh, that's not all that important," or "You're just now figuring that out?" I can just say it, let it float out there on the internet without having to deal with someone responding to it. And honestly, in my experience, what tends to happen is that even when people do respond they tend to respond positively. But then, even with that, there is a safety to it. There is a response, and then I can choose to respond back or not. It's a bit of a static give and take as opposed to a dynamic actual interchange between two living human beings.

But here's the other thing that I'm realizing this weekend. Even though it's safe for me to share on the internet, it's also lonely. It doesn't always feel lonely at the time, but as I'm watching myself doing this, I can see what I'm looking for and I can see that the internet isn't giving it to me. I watch myself check to see if I have a comment on my blogpost, I watch myself update my status and wait to see if anyone responds, I watch myself check my email to see if my friend has replied. It's all grasping for human interaction and, though it's safe, it's just not the same. It doesn't make me feel less lonely. I don't know what does make me feel less lonely. I think I just see that I am lonely, that I'm looking to the internet to feel better, and it's not really working.

Walk very slowly...(serving oryoki Part 2)

You might want to read the first post about oryoki before reading this one...
After everyone was served their rice, we moved on to serving the food in the second bowl: some sort of thick soup. I think this was my favorite part. Like I said, when you serve food in the second bowl, you actually take the person's bowl from them, fill it, and then hand it back to them. Oh! I forgot to mention about hand signals during oryoki. Oryoki, like everything else in the zendo, is done in silence. So, in order to communicate how much food you want, you make a gesture that communicates either: 'more' or 'that's enough'. As a server, you have to keep your eye out for this. As you are serving the food, you are also watching the hand of the person you are serving to know whether or not to give them another spoonful.
So, basically, the soup serving went like this. I'd gazelle up to the quadrant with my pot of hot soup in two hands, approach the two people I was serving, and bow to them. Then I'd kneel down to the level of the mealboard, rest the pot on it, and put out my left hand to receive their bowl. They'd hand me their bowl and that's when I had to be super mindful. I had to hold  their bowl over the pot of soup, pick up the ladle full of soup and pour it into their bowl without spilling; meanwhile, watching, out of the corner of my eye, for their gesture of 'enough' or 'more.' I'd either ladle another scoop or hand it back to them- all without spilling!
I loved the delicacy of this exchange. When you hand your bowl to the server, you do it with just three fingers and as a server, you receive their bowl with just three fingers. So I would hand back this bowl full of steaming hot soup, so gently, and they would receive it, with such great care, it was beautiful.
Then we served the third bowl which, if I remember correctly, was salad. All I remember was that it involved tongs that seemed longer than the bowl they were in so I was super afraid they were going to fall out of the bowl and onto to the zendo floor...
After the third bowl, everyone chants and then they eat. The servers, however, start to clean up a bit and prepare for the 'cleaning' portion of oryoki. I remember feeling kind of good about my gazelle speed but then beginning to wonder if I was going too fast in the zendo. I honestly worried that I might be making a breeze with my speed, like I might be a distraction during oryoki. But then I realized that my mind was wandering and I needed to focus on bringing the pots back up to the kitchen, so I did. After we were finished with that and I was taking my shoes off I remember this funny feeling of serving others and not eating. I've never worked in a restuarant or been in a situation where I have given food to others but not eaten myself. It was weird and I wish I could say that it felt good to serve others and not eat, but it didn't. Mostly I thought, 'I hope there's enough left for us,' 'Wait, do we eat now?' and 'Wow, how long do I have to wait before I get to eat?'
Then it was time to 'clean up.' Basically this means that we offer hot water (in tea kettles) so that people can 'clean' their bowls (after they've already mostly wiped them clean with their special utensils). As I approached the doshi door with tea kettle in hand, the soku whipsered to me: "Walk very slowly." I nodded to her, in acknoweldgment, and thought, "Okay, got it. I've been going way too fast and she knows this and was going to tell me later but she knows that if I go as fast as I have been going, with a kettle of hot water in my hand, I will spill hot water all over the zendo floor and it will be a nightmare." So, I walked, extremely slowly. Like, seriously, one of the other servers lapped me. But I wasn't speeding up- I did not want to spill that water.
And I made it, poured that water to my quadrant without spilling it, and headed back out.
After that, we cleaned everything up and brought it back up to the kitchen. Then we put away everything in the kitchen and sat down at a table to have our own oryoki meal. We served each other the same way as we had served the others in the zendo. We chanted, bowed, and ate in silence. Then we cleaned our bowls, wrapped them up, and bowed to them.
Afterward, the soku and head server 'debriefed' how oryoki had gone that morning. We all talked about how we thought it had gone, asked any questions to clarify forms, and then bowed in gratitude to each other. The soku had one point of clarification for me. When she had told me to slow down, I was sure that it was because I was going way too fast. It turned out that the only reason she said it was because there were people in my quadrant who, at the time, hadn't completely finished dry cleaning their bowls. She thought that if I walked slowly, they'd be done by the time I arrived with the water. I laughed and shared with her how I thought she was protecting me from spilling the water and how grateful I was for that. She shared with me how it was for her: that as she watched me slow down she saw how seriously I had taken her advice, and what a beautiful experience that was.

It was a beautiful experience for me too. I loved seeing everyone's hands as I served them, loved the feeling that we were working together, loved being part of a community of people whose intention is just to be kind.

Okay, I'm just going to say this next thing because, well, it's the truth.

There is one more really important point about this experience- one thing about me, and the zendo, and the people in the zendo. I wrote a post a while back about feeling judged in the zendo. Granted, by the end of the post I realized that no one was judging me, they were just offering me feedback but still, here's what I'm going to say.
No one in the zendo has changed- the same people who I initially thought were 'judging' me are the same people who I've just written about, who were supporting me, encouraging me, accpeting my mistakes as part of the learning process. The only one who changed, was me- the only one who has ever been 'judging' was me.

Running in the zendo (serving oryoki Part 1)

A friend told me that one of the best things about being a server during oryoki was that you get to run in the zendo. At the last one day sit, I got to do just that, and right in front of the abbess!
But that wasn't the best part of being a server during oryoki. The best part was the people being served.
Oryoki is when you eat in the zendo (the meditation hall). It's tricky. You need to eat but you also need to kind of be meditating. You want to be present to this nourishment in front of you, but at the same time, you have to actually eat. So, you have bowls, chopsticks, a spoon, a napkin, and you even have this little tool to help you clean everything up when you're done. You basically manage the practical aspects of eating but do it in a way that is meditative: that is calm, quiet, and efficient. And then, just to keep it real, you're doing it at the same time as everyone else in the zendo.  Honestly, everyone in the zendo takes the first spoonful together. It could be a nightmare, it could be beautiful; I have found that it is both. Okay, so that's the eating side of things. Recently, I was a server, so I got to see the serving side of things. It was beautiful, not so much a nightmare.

It was my first time serving, but I didn't totally make that clear to the soku (the person in charge of making sure that oryoki goes smoothly) until the end of the training. By that time though, I had asked so many questions and she had been so kind and indulged me by letting me act out what I would do as a server that I felt like, "Well, I know enough to survive. Hopefully she'll just put me in the middle so I have people to watch." Plus, I had spent that morning during breakfast oryoki watching the servers to try to figure out what to do when it was my turn to serve at lunch. 
It all started out quite sweetly, actually. We were standing outside the 'doshi' door, waiting. I, of course, was all revved up, wanting to do everything exactly as I was 'supposed' to. So I was standing right in front of the doshi door, with my body facing the entrance. Unbeknownst to me, the rest of the servers were standing with their backs against the wall, waiting without blocking the entrance. The soku didn't say anything like "Uh, you're kinda in the way;" she simply put her hands on my shoulders and guided me back to the wall. I laughed at myself and felt grateful for these people who seemed to know what I was feeling and were supporting me to do whatever it was I was about to do. I knew right then that it didn't really matter which mistakes I was going to make, they would be accepted, as part of the practice.
Then the soku nodded, and I was on my way.  My first task was to clean the mealboard (the wooden platform right in front of the meditation cushion where you place your bowls to eat) in the first quadrant (the one with the abbess in it).  It's all the way on the other side of the zendo and I knew we were supposed to be quiet but quick. So, I did as they suggested (walk on the balls of your feet instead of your heels) and took these long strides with my legs, feeling all gazelly and stealth- like. I turned both corners all right-angly like the morning servers had done, and stopped purposefully, right in front of the abbess. I placed the moist-cloth-wrapped-wooden-thing on the mealboard in front of her then held on to it as I ran, straight toward the doan (the person who rings the bell in the zendo). I had heard of servers getting a little over zealous and actually running straight into the doan, so I did my best to restrain myself. Then I stopped, stood up, and bowed. Then I gazelled at fast as I could back out the doshi door for my next task.
The next task was definitely the most difficult task: rice. It is hard to serve rice. It either sticks in huge clumps or falls apart into tiny grains with a mind of their own. Also, because of this issue around rice, you have two utensils for serving rice: one for just getting a spoonful out of the pot and the other for scraping it off the untensil and into the person's bowl. Even though this was hard, it was also pretty sweet because everyone I served seemed to honestly be trying to help me get the rice in to their bowl.
Okay, just a quick explanation about bowls. When I do oryoki, I have three bowls which nest into each other: the largest bowl is called the Buddha bowl (it's the first bowl in which you receive food), the next largest one is called the second bowl, and the next largest one is called the third bowl (I know, I know, why's that first one called the Buddha bowl? I dunno, sorrry). I don't help myself to the food that I eat, the server serves it to me, and they serve it to me differently depending on which bowl I am using to receive the food. (Honestly, I think this is this way because of the food that tends to go in each bowl. It seems like the first bowl always has some kind of grain/ rice, the second bowl has some kind of liquid, and the third bowl has some kind of 'side dish' that is often made up of many pieces (salad, pickled vegetables, nuts, etc).
When you receive food in your Buddha bowl, you hold your bowl close to the pot and the server puts the food into your bowl for you. When you receive food in your second bowl, you hand your bowl to the server, they fill it with the food, and then hand it back to you. The third bowl is the same as the Buddha bowl.
So, when I was serving rice, because it was served in the Buddha bowl, I was putting rice into people's bowls for them. And, pretty much, the rice was having a mind of its own. No matter how careful I was, I seemed to either give the person some huge clump of rice that almost fell out of their bowl or I'd give a small clump and then have to give more. When I gave more, I'd have to scrape the rice off the spoon and the little grains kept flying off on to people's cushions. But no one got mad; they just moved their bowl closer to catch those grains, or jostled their bowl so the rice would fit in it.
Now, since I've been on the receiving side of this equation, I know that during oryoki, I do everything I can to get that food in to my bowl so that I don't spill. So maybe that's what people were doing, I can't speak for them. But what I felt, was that people were trying to help me, they were putting their bowls close, moving the food around, so that I could do my job without making too much of a mess. And that was a pretty sweet feeling.

Mother's Day

Mother's Day has always been kind of an "other people's thing" for me; kind of like prom, or makeup, or even bars. I get why people are doing it, it just wasn't something I did. It didn't make sense for me to do it. I've never even felt sad on Mother's Day. When I was a little girl in school, Mother's Day projects turned in to special-time-with-the-teacher for me. Most of them knew about my mother, so they would pull me aside to make an 'alternate' card or gift for Mother's Day.
Over the past few years, I've taken time on Mother's Day to call all the people who have been mothers for me-  aunts, good friends, women whose children I babysat- wonderful women who took an interest in me, took the time to get to know me; that extra conversation, that pushing past my initial response of pulling back, that tender care to draw me out and let me know that I was unique and okay.

This Mother's Day, I'm feeling kind of confused. Part of me is sad that it's Mother's Day- not that it's Mother's Day-but that I don't have a mom. And then part of me says, 'You do have a mom- she's just dead,' but that makes me even sadder. It's kind of lonely to not have a mom on Mother's Day.
Part of me wants to call all the moms in my life and celebrate them. But part of me sees that as something completely separate from what I'm feeling right now, which is sadness, and the beginning of acceptance that, in fact, my mother is dead, has been for a long time, and that I grew up without a mom, am still living without a mom.
Part of me says, 'Really? Is that how you're going to spend your Mother's Day? Mourning your mom?"
But, in writing this, literally, right now I realize, that's actually the most appropriate thing for me to be doing on Mother's Day: acknowledging that my mother lived, acknowledging that my mother died, acknowledging my sadness and loss around this truth. I don't know how closer you could get to reality than that.
I don't know how I'm going to mourn my mom on Mother's Day, and my guess is that it doesn't work like that- you can't say, "Okay, I'm going to mourn my mother now." But I think I'm going to remove this feeling that I'm supposed to be doing something else on Mother's Day; accept that my Mother's Day might be about saying goodbye, something I still don't want to do yet.

Utmost desire and absolute aversion- what's a girl to do?

I was at a party, talking with someone I had just met, and I started freaking out. I was enjoying what the person was saying, genuinely interested in her life and what was going on with her, but then these thoughts showed up:
"What if she wants to talk to me at the next party we're at?" "Are we, like, friends now?" "Do I need to say hi to her and hang out with her and not my other friends the next time that I see her?"
This feeling started to well up in me, this need to "get home," this desire to be in my cozy bed, all by myself, with a book.
As I was heading home I thought "What was that all about? Weren't you just in the midst of making a new friend? Don't you want friends? Don't you want connection? How can you be so afraid of this thing that you want so much?"

I couldn't figure out what it was that I was afraid of, so I brought it up with my therapist. I talked about how I felt like I had some responsibility toward this person, like I was somehow committed  to her or something and I suggested that that was what was making me feel afraid.
She listened and then said, "I'm going to make some statements, and you see if they ring true with you:
'What if she doesn't talk to me the next time I see her?'
'What if she isn't my friend?'
'What if she talks to other people and not me?'

I could feel it in my gut as soon as she made the first statement. That was exactly what I was feeling, I just thought it was something else.
"So I'm afraid of rejection, not connection."
She just looked at me, in the way that therapists do.

I mulled this idea in my head a bit, asked her some more questions, and then she brought up Chris Rock. She talked about his bit about people sending in their 'representative': how when people first meet, they send in their very best selves, their representative but then later, you meet the real person and you sometimes feel like saying "Awww man, this is it? I wanted the representative!"
(please forgive any misrepresenation of Chris Rock AND my therapist- how accurate can your recollection be of your own therapy?!)
We talked about how afraid I was of not meeting her expectations the next time I met her, of saying something that she didn't like, or  just having her plain old not like me the next time I saw her: basically, not living up to the status of my 'representative.'
"So that's why I wanted to leave so much. I wanted to quit while I was ahead, leave before I could mess things up."
She smiled, "You wanted to reject her before she could reject you."
Darnit!

I thought this over too and then I asked, "So, it's not so much about going out and making connections, it's about sticking with them when they get scary- being willing to be rejected."
She nodded. I had a hope but then I thought it was just an attempt to avoid this suffering of being rejected. "Um, does it get better? Like, the more I stay around, the less likely I am to be rejected? Or, are people just always going to reject you in one way or another and you just have to tolerate it, let it be?"
"People may not always be able to meet you where you're at, but the more that you connect with them, the less likely they'll be to turn away. You actually do develop a connection over time, but that comes from you sharing your self, what's inside you. The more of that you give, the more the person can connect to you, see you."

I thought about this too. I knew that people could reject me, no matter what I did. But I also knew that if I didn't stay around, that would be the ultimate rejection. (Well, I guess it wouldn't, because if I leave, they won't be rejecting me.) But I knew for sure that if I walked away, I would be alone. And I thought that if I stayed, though I might be rejected, I'd still be there. It might not be comfortable and it might be sad but for some reason, it felt less alone. 

So I'm going to try to be present, and stick around; not just in the blogosphere, in real life too.

One Day Sit: NOT a mini sesshin

Maybe it’s ‘cause I had a cold. Maybe it’s ‘cause I’m not willing to sit with the stuff that’s coming up about my mom. Most likely, it’s because I had expectations coming in to the One-Day sit, I thought it would be like a seventh of a sesshin: I would show up, sit down, and have hours upon hours of realizations about myself, that I would sit with them, that they would release and I would leave feeling all light and exhausted at the same time. 

Nope, didn’t happen. Not a lot happened, actually. Mostly, I sat, and thought, and not in good way: I relived real conversations with people, analyzed them, and then made up future imaginary conversations with them in which everything was settled. I made up some good fantasies, fixed all the problems I’ve been having in my classroom, and had one realization about my mom. All in all: mmmm, I’d say not-so-great, but I know better than to judge my one day sit. It was mine, I made it what it was, and so that’s all it was.

There were some highlights, they just had nothing to do with meditation:

Bowing, in perfect timing, like exact timing, with another person during the Full Moon Ceremony. It was crazy sweet, and actually kind of scared me in its level of intimacy.

Freaking out while chanting the precepts during the Full Moon Ceremony; but then reminding myself that this chanting, the thing that feels so mindless to me, is the very same thing that clears away those thoughts that lead me to prejudge others and separate myself from them.

Dharma talk: Totally fitting after the Full Moon Ceremony. Rosalie talked about the six paramitas in such practical and sweet terms. It made me want to study more, reminded me how much of this practice is about others, about how I can bring peace and ease to others by my response, not by trying to change them (and seeing how much suffering I do bring when I try to change them or see them through my own fears and stories).

Being a server at lunchtime oryoki- it was definitely the highlight- so much so that I’m going to write a separate post about it.

Falling asleep on the roof and then mysteriously waking up at exactly 3:15, right when the han started for afternoon zazen. And guess what, you can hear the han on the roof- there’s no escaping the schedule….

Sitting with a stranger at dinner, starting to judge, stepping back, listening instead. Starting to evaluate myself in the interaction, trying to figure out the “right” way to be, reminding myself there’s no “right way” to be with others, then doing what I felt instead.

Connecting with others- in the entry way, on the corner- knowing people, being part of a community that knows each other, that cares about each other.

Ready or not part 3 (the self writes a blog)

I know, it's ridiculous, but I recently discovered that I am writing this blog.

I was considering sharing this blog with the people in my class at East Bay Meditation Center. But then I thought, "Uh oh, if I tell them, they might read that post about me being all pompous with my meditation skills. They might find out that I thought I was better at mediating than they were."
"But you did think you were better at mediating than they were."
"Yeah but they didn't know that. If they read the blog and then see me, they'll know."
GASP!
"Oh my gosh. The people at the zen center read my blog, and they see me... oh shoot- they know! They know- they know all about me- I share a lot on this blog and then I walk around there, and, like, they know these things about me. Oh my gosh what have I been doing?"
"Okay," I concluded. "Time to stop the blog. You can't keep sharing all this stuff. This is way too personal."
And I thought about comments I've gotten on my posts, and how sometimes they scare me or surprise me and I thought, "Yeah, this is a little too much, a little too vulnerable."
Then I thought about the comments that just make me feel good. (Sorry, I don't mean to categorize the comments, it's just honestly what I thought.)
I thought, "Well, it's kind of a 50/50 thing here. It's true: if you give up the blog, you give up being challenged, being open to criticism, open to hurt. But you also give up being appreciated, noticed, seen."

But then I thought about the comments I received on my post about seeing my "real" self. In those comments, people shared how they saw me, and it was really informative to see myself through the eyes of others. Then I thought again about the comments that scared me or pointed out my mistakes and I thought, "It's true. They hurt and they were scary but they taught me a lot about myself and they made me grow. And also, that hurt that I felt, that fear that I might be "wrong" or that people might not like me,  that's me turning a comment into a judgment."
I thought about this world, and how silly it is of me to think that I can just be and not ever receive feedback from the people around me, never make mistakes or mess things up. I'm in this world, with others. It's not like I can just live my life without having an effect or having no one say anything about it. And also,  it's feedback, it might feel like hurt but it's not meant that way- it's people sharing their truth with you, it's people seeing you and telling you about it.

I wondered about this whole separation thing I had been doing. How I kept creating this space, this boundary between the person who interacted with others and this person who I thought was me.
"Oh, that's a nice little buffer there. If that person- the one who interacts with others- makes a mistake, hurts someone, does something you think is wrong; you can deny it, you don't have to feel that."
And I thought, "There it is again, That not feeling. In the same way that this little buffer keeps you from feeling hurt, rejection, loss; it also keeps you from feeling the love of others. That's why you don't feel it, that's why you feel disconnected, alone. You have a choice here. You can stay protected but it means you're all by yourself and it means you won't feel their love. And also, think about what you think is hurt and rejection, is it really so bad? Does it stick around forever? And honestly, most of it is actually people seeing you, caring enough to say what they see, and still liking you. They stick around, you're the only one leaving... "

So I'm sticking around. I'm staying open to hurt and criticism and feedback and comments. I think I can do this because it's a blog, so I can just click the x button and go off and cry by myself for a while if I need to. But I also think that it's teaching me that real interactions, real hurt, might be tolerable, and might bring me closer to people, might bring me closer to being seen.